


Wrong Number

by lacqueluster (GG_and_MM)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GG_and_MM/pseuds/lacqueluster
Summary: Should you reply? Could he be some weird stalker? That would be your luck, texting a crazy person by accident. But then again, it was you who text him first. Maybe he thinks you’re the crazy person. And he’s not asking for any information about you, just how your day is going. You figure it can’t hurt to reply.





	Wrong Number

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on Tumblr awhile ago about texting a wrong number by accident and it ending up being Jensen. It got my mind spinning, and I couldn't get the idea to leave me alone. Since I don't write RPF it came to life for me as Dean, and this is the result. Hope you enjoy!

You check the bath water, making sure the temperature is just right. It’s steaming a little against the chill in your bathroom. You light a couple candles, setting them around the side of the tub, then grab the bath bomb and unwrap it. 

You drop it in and watch it fizz, the delicate scent filling the room. Closing your eyes, you can feel some of the tension draining out of your shoulders. When you open your eyes and look back at the water you’re amazed by how much the bath bomb is bubbling. 

Grabbing your phone off the sink you snap a picture. It comes out pretty good, really. Better than expected for an unplanned snap. The foam is boldly colored against the white tile, the edges of the tub almost blurred in foam.   
You sigh as you sink into the water. It feels like heaven to your tired body. This is exactly what you needed tonight. 

Your head falls back for a second as you let the warmth seep into your bones. When you look up you realize you’ve got another perfect picture framed before you. Your knees, shins and feet are the only things sticking out of the water, your feet propped up, resting on the side of the tub. Foam and bubbles dance over the water around your skin. You snap another picture and smile. You decide you have to send these to Carmen. 

She’d been so nice when you’d been in her store. She sells handmade items, homemade bath products, and lots of eclectic stuff in her shop. You’d popped in on a whim and immediately fallen in love with the style of the place. You’d grabbed a couple things, the bath bomb being one of them, and then ended up chatting with her for over 20 minutes. When you’d left the store she’d told you to text her and let her know what you think, that her number was on the sticker holding the wrapper closed. You look at the bath bomb wrapper laying beside the tub and pick it up. 

You put the number in your phone and add the two pictures to your message, with a short caption, hitting send. 

Setting the phone aside, you drift away, forgetting the stresses of everyday life for a few minutes. 

As the water cools and you start to think about abandoning the tub, your phone dings. You pick it up, expecting a reply from Carmen or text from a friend. You’re confused for a second by what you see instead. 

“Sorry sweetheart, wrong number.” 

You double check the number you put in your phone and realize you were off by one digit. Oh man. You’re such an idiot. Whoever this is probably thinks you’re crazy. You type a quick reply.

“So sorry! I didn’t mean to bother you, I typed the number wrong.” 

Your phone dings with a reply in seconds. 

You can’t help but smile at this guy’s idea of relaxing. It doesn’t look half bad, actually. You’ve had that whiskey before, it’s pretty good. Before you know it you type a reply. 

“That’s a good whiskey. Pretty bold but still smooth.” 

A reply dings as you dry off. 

“You some kind of whiskey expert?”

That gets a laugh out of you. “No, I just know what I like.” You hit send. 

You wrap the towel around yourself and stroll into your bedroom, reaching for your favorite lotion. 

“Nothing wrong with that.”   
“I’m impressed.”

You smile, shaking your head. Who is this guy? He’s probably wondering the same thing about you, the woman who sent him random naked pictures in the bathtub. 

You groan internally. At least they were as tame as possible. That’s your only solace here. 

“You’re easily impressed.” You tell him. 

“Not at all.” 

“Well, you have a good evening.” You type, not knowing why you even feel obligated to say goodbye to a stranger. 

“Same to you.” 

With that your phone goes silent, and you put thoughts of the Wrong Number Guy aside.

*****

The next afternoon you’re ready to pull your hair out from stress. Typical for a Tuesday at 3 pm. You think back on that lovely bath last night, wishing you could time travel back there. 

As you massage your temples your mind wanders to the wrong number guy. He’d been nice. Most people probably wouldn’t respond to a message like that, or they’d be rude. Or they’d be crude. That’s a definite possibility too. He hadn’t been, though. It makes you wonder who he is? What’s his name? What does he look like? Your mind spinning with questions, the rest of the day passses quickly, and soon it’s time to leave work. 

As you’re walking out your phone dings. 

“How’s this fine Tuesday going for you?” It’s Wrong Number Guy. 

You hesitate. Should you reply? Could he be some weird stalker? That would be your luck, texting a crazy person by accident. But then again, it was you who text him first. Maybe he thinks you’re the crazy person. And he’s not asking for any information about you, just how your day is going. You figure it can’t hurt to reply. 

“I’m glad it’s over. You?” 

“Wow. That bad?” 

You figure you might as well be honest. Not like you know this guy. “They’re pretty much all that bad.” 

“Damn. Sounds like you need a new job.” 

You laugh at that. “You hit the nail on the head.” You reply. “How was your day?” You ask again. He didn’t answer that before, and for whatever reason you’re genuinely curious. 

“Productive. Finished one job, heading to another.” 

Finished a job? You wonder if he’s a contractor or something. You decide to ask. It’s not like it can hurt. 

“What do you do?” 

“I’m a hunter.” 

Hunter? That’s a weird job. You’ve never heard of someone who hunts for a living. As a hobby, yes. To put food on the table, yeah. But for a job? Nope. 

“What do you hunt?” You ask. 

“Whatever people call me for. Or whatever makes the papers.” 

Whatever makes the papers? What in the world? Are deer out there killing people and making headlines or something? You start to ask, but he texts first. 

“Plans for tonight?” 

This sets you on edge a bit. It seems personal, like he wants intimate information. It’s not really, but it makes you feel off somehow. 

Another text pops up as you stare at the screen. 

“I’m almost to Omaha. Thought about going out for a beer but I’m not feelin it. Thought I’d just get a room, wondered if you’d want to keep talking?” 

And with that text the request for anything that seemed personal is gone. Relief washes over you. You wonder if he knows you tensed up there. You need to reply, you’re taking too long. 

“Are you texting and driving?” 

“Hell no. I wouldn’t do that to my Baby.” 

What? He has a baby? Oh shit. Is he married? You hadn’t thought of that. What if he is married. With a baby. What if he has a baby and he’s not married? How do you feel about that possibility?

Oh God. This is messing with your head. 

Your phone dings. “My little brother is driving.”

You look around, not paying attention to what you’re seeing. His little brother? Is he a teenager? With a baby? Could you go to jail for sending bathtub picks to a teenager? That thought never occurred to you. What if you sent those pictures to a minor?! Your head is spinning. 

“You have a baby?” It’s the only reply you can think of. 

“Yep.” 

His reply makes you deeply uncomfortable for some reason. 

Your phone dings again and you want to throw it away. You peek at the screen, curiosity getting the best of you. 

There’s a picture of a car. Long, black, chrome, flashy metal contrasting against shiny paint. 

You shake your head, feeling like an idiot. He’s a car guy, and this car is his baby. 

You can feel the pride he has for the car. How that’s possible you don’t know. 

“I’m free this evening if you want to text.” You hit send before giving it a second thought. 

You text all evening. You talk beer, detail what you each had for dinner, your favorite tv shows, he sends you a pic of his “loser” little brother, passed out face down over a laptop doing research. It’s captioned with ten laughing faces. All you can make out is a mop of hair and a flannel shirt.

By midnight you know you’re going to be regretting this tomorrow. You’re also wondering why you don’t just call this guy instead of texting. And you’re really dying to know his name. You enter him into your contacts as “Wrong Number”, not having the guts to ask, but not knowing why. You told him about all the cheesy movies you love, why is asking his name so hard? 

At 1:30 in the morning you know you have to go to bed. If you don’t you won’t be able to get up for work. The thought of missing a day of work isn’t awful, but the mess you’ll walk back into when you go back is. 

“Sorry, I really need to get some sleep tonight. Are you even tired?” you ask. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty wiped. I should get some shut eye too.” 

“Didn’t mean to keep you up past your bedtime.” You send a laughing face after that one, making sure he knows it’s a joke. 

 

“No worries, sweetheart. It’s been a nice evening.” 

You can’t argue with that. It has been a nice evening. 

“Night,” you tell him. 

He sends back a sleepy emoji and you hold back a grin. 

*****

The next day drags. Every day drags at work, but sleep deprivation raises it to a painful level. You don’t hear from the Wrong Number Guy until you get home from work. You’re beginning to wonder if he’s going to text you first, and if there’s some kind of “wait three days to text a wrong number guy” protocol, and then your phone dings. 

“Evenin, sweetheart.” 

That shouldn’t make you smile. You’re an idiot for smiling at that. You do it anyway. 

“Hey, how was your day?” 

“I survived.” 

Something in that text sounds tired. How two words can convey that, you’re not sure, but it’s there. 

“You okay?” 

It takes a few minutes before you hear back from him. “I’m a little beat up but I’ll survive.” 

That worries you. “Are you hurt?” 

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” 

A picture pops up, a masculine hand holding a bottle of whiskey. “This is helping,” it’s captioned. 

You head to your liquor cabinet and pull out a dusty bottle of bourbon from the back, snapping a picture and sending it off. “Mind if I join you?” you ask. 

“By all means. Your day that bad?” 

“The usual. I’m just tired.” 

You set your phone aside as you try to decide what to eat for dinner. Nothing sounds good. When you pick it back up there are five messages sent in quick succession. 

“Someone keep you up last night?”   
There’s a laughing face.   
“You’ve got a 10pm curfew this evening.”   
“If you want to talk.”   
“If you’re free that is.” 

This shows he’s got a little insecurity in this situation too. That makes you feel better. He’s seemed so confident all along. 

“I’m free.” You follow it up with a quick second text. “I’m pretty much always free.” You send it before you realize it makes you sound like a loser. Well, shit. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

His reply makes you feel better. He has a way of doing that. 

God you wish you knew his name. Why can’t you ask? It seems to stupid but you just can’t make yourself type out the question. 

Conversation goes on. When he mentions he and Sam (you know his brother’s name now, but not his) are ordering pizza, you scrap your dinner idea and do the same. Pizza sounds perfect on this lazy evening. 

He drinks whiskey. You sip bourbon. By 9:00 you’re getting flirty. 

He sends you a picture of his empty tumblr glass, having finished the bottle of whiskey. You can see the print on the rim where his mouth was. 

“I can see your lip prints there. You always leave marks with your mouth?” Somehow, deep inside your buzzing brain, you know you’ll be embarrassed about this tomorrow. Right now you don’t care. 

“Not always.” He says. It doesn’t seem playful at all and you can’t help a pang of disappointment. 

“But women always remember where my mouth has been.” 

Ohhhh… Holy shit. That was smooth. So fucking smooth. You tell him so. 

“Smooth talker.” 

“I can back it up.” 

Something tells you he’s not lying, and it sets off a heat under your skin that you haven’t felt in a long time. How do you respond to that? You need to cool it here. You may be buzzing but you know you don’t want to be sexting with wrong number guy. 

Not yet. 

“All the good men can.” You say. 

“I don’t know that I’d call myself a good man.” 

That’s a strange response and it makes you pause. Why wouldn’t he call himself a good man? You don’t know him at all, it’s not like you can judge. And still, you have something in your gut telling you he is. 

“You better get to bed, don’t want you yelling at me tomorrow for keeping you up late again.” He follows the message with a winky face, and you know it’s an attempt to lighten the dark turn the conversation took. 

“I won’t yell at you,” you assure him. “I’ll just get extra coffee on my way in.” You follow up the text with a coffee mug emoji, and then yawn despite fighting it. The alcohol is making you sleepy. 

“Yeah I’m gonna need extra coffee too.” 

You decide to give it up. Whether he’s hinting or not you’re sure he’s tired, especially if he got beat up that day. 

“Sounds like we both need some rest. You have a good night.” You hit send. 

As you’re crawling into bed, a little dizzy from the bourbon, a text comes through. 

“You do the same, sweetheart.” 

You’re smiling as you fall asleep. 

*****

If you survive this week it will be a miracle. You seriously need a new job. You say that all the time. And yet here you sit, ready to scream into the void. 

You need a distraction. 

“Not enough coffee to get me through this day, even with a good night's sleep. How you doing?” 

You send it to “Wrong Number” and wait. 

“You really need a new job.” 

You grin at your phone like a crazy person. You’re not even supposed to be on it at work. Right now you don’t give a shit. 

“You read my mind.” 

“Tell me somethin’” 

“What’s that?”

You wonder what he’s about to ask. You hope he asks for your name, then you can ask for his. You’re starting to think he can’t be as invested in this texting thing if he hasn’t even asked your name. But what person would be as invested as you are in texting a stranger? No one. 

“If you could have any job in the world, what would it be?” 

You don’t even think about your reply. “That’s easy. None.” 

“You wouldn’t work?” 

“Nope, I’d travel.” 

It takes him a minute to reply. 

“That’s funny, I travel all the time. I’d rather have a home.” 

That makes you pause. You never know when you’re taking things for granted. 

You notice your boss watching you. You decide the risk is worth it, sneaking another text out when he looks away. 

“What about you? Do you like your job?” 

“Somebody’s gotta do it, and I’m damn good at it.” 

That didn’t really answer if he likes it or not. You catch your boss out of the corner of your eye. He’s standing up. 

“Gotta go, boss is on to me. Text later.” You almost send a kissing emoji and decide that’s a huge no no. 

He sends back a big thumbs up. 

When you get home and kick off your shoes later that day your phone dings. 

“You survive the big bad boss?” 

You haven’t smiled so much in ages. It feels good. 

“Yes. I swear he’s evil.” 

The blob of dots comes up for ages, like he’s texting a book as a reply. When his text finally comes though it’s just two words. 

“Doubt it.” 

Weird. 

“Thank God tomorrow is Friday.” You text back. 

“Any big plans this weekend?” 

Texting with him are the only plans that pop into your mind. You don’t tell him that. 

“Nope. You?” 

His reply takes a little longer than usual. “Heading out to the next hunt sometime tomorrow. Other than that, nothin’.” 

You don’t know what to say. There’s a stall in the conversation. You tap your phone, thinking. 

“Wait, I do have plans.” You tell him, spur of the moment. 

“Oh yeah? Anything good?” Another text comes through right away. “You busy all weekend?” 

You’re pretty sure he’s asking if you’ll be too busy to text. That sends some long dormant butterflies fanning in your stomach. 

“I’ve got a hot date with my couch, a bottle of wine, and some 80’s movies.” 

“Hell yeah, my kinda girl.” 

You smile like an idiot. “Yeah, watch out. It’s a party up in here.” That might be the dumbest text you’ve ever sent. 

He gets the joke though, replying with a laughing till he’s crying face. 

Your evening passes in comfortable chatter, and at 10:00 he sends you off to bed. 

*****

You manage to survive Friday. Barely. You think about texting “Wrong Number” several times, but with your boss hovering around you know you can’t risk it. Plus you wouldn’t be able to talk anyway. So when you finally hit the door and flop down on the couch, you’re ecstatic to hear that familiar ding. 

“You home yet?” He’s asking. 

“Yes, thank God. What are you up to?” 

“Stopped for a bite. Still got at least four hours of driving left. We got a late start, Sam wanted a special kale muffin or some other crap for breakfast.” 

That bums you out. If he’s driving he can’t text. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll let his brother drive. His brother should owe him for making them start late for a kale muffin. That sounds disgusting.

“Ew. Was it worth it?” 

“Hell, I don’t know. I don’t eat that crap.” 

You shake your head. “Yeah, me neither. So, is Sam driving?” 

“Not this time, Legs. We’re hitting rush hour traffic. I’m not letting Baby out of my hands.” 

You read the text a second time. Then a third. Did he really call you legs? What the heck? 

“Legs?” You have to ask it. This needs to be clarified. 

“Sorry”  
“That’s what I put you in my phone as.”  
“I didn’t know your name.”   
“That’s what I call you in my head.” 

The texts come in quick succession. He’s trying to explain. 

“It’s okay.” You reply. You snort a laugh when you actually think about it. “You’re in my phone as “Wrong Number”.”

“Seriously?” He asks. You can just hear the mocking tone in that text. 

“Yes, I’m serious!” 

“That’s the best you got? Wrong Number?” 

“Oh, like Legs is so much better? What am I, a ZZ Top song?”

“Hey, that’s a damn good song.” 

You have to give him that. 

“And have you seen the video?” 

You figure he’s going to say something about the hot girls next. 

“That car is sweet.” 

You laugh out loud to your empty living room. “Ok, you win.” 

“I’m Dean, btw.” 

You sit there, staring at your phone in stunned silence. Dean. His name is Dean. You hadn’t imagined that, but somehow it’s perfect. 

“Dean Winchester.” He says in the next text. 

You reply with your name. 

“That’s a pretty name. It fits you.” 

How he knows that it fits you, you have no idea. You’ve never seen each other. 

“Yeah, so does yours.” 

“I hate to but I gotta run. Need to get back on the road.”

You hate it too. Somehow knowing his name makes all this seem more intimate. You don’t want to break contact right now. 

“That’s okay. Be safe.” You hit send and then think of something else. “Let me know you made it to the next town okay?” 

“Sure thing. You have a good evening.” 

You look around your living room. It seems so empty. It shouldn’t, it’s the same as always. But somehow texting with Dean for almost a week has made you less lonely. 

Dean. Dean Winchester. You’re dying to know what he looks like. Is he handsome? What if he’s not? Would that matter to you? What would he think of you? Are you his type? Why are you thinking of this in such serious romantic terms? You have no idea if he has any interest in you like that at all. 

You shouldn’t be overthinking this so much. You need to be chilling out, recovering for the work week that starts in a few days. You sigh, setting about getting something to eat, watching some tv, and just relaxing. You try to stay awake, telling yourself you’re not waiting on a text from Dean, but you’re lying to yourself. By midnight you can’t make it anymore. Heading to bed, you crash before your head hits the pillow. 

When you wake in the morning, sun streaming through the blinds, you reach for your phone first thing. 

“Hey sweetheart. I know you’re probably sleeping. Wanted to let you know we made it in later than expected. Gonna sleep a few hours and hit the case hard first thing in the morning. Hoping to knock this one out in a couple days.” 

That text came in at 1:45 in the morning. He sent another one at 2:00. 

“Glad I finally know your name.” 

The warmth that floods your chest is exciting. You probably shouldn’t let yourself get attached to this guy, but at this point can you really help it? You wonder if you should text him back. He might still be sleeping. You send him one short message, hoping you don’t wake him up. 

“Thanks for letting me know you made it ok. I was worried. Good luck today, Dean.” 

You use his name on purpose. You’re pretty sure if you ever meet him you’ll say his name as much as possible. That seems stupid. You shake your head at yourself. 

You’re surprised when your phone dings. 

“Already up and at ’em. I’m ready to get outta this town. It smells weird.” 

What is he talking about? “It smells weird?” 

“There’s a paper mill here. Smells like demons.” He sends a green puking face with that last text. 

Demons? What does that mean? Is that some kind of slang you don’t know. 

“Demons?” you ask. 

“Like sulphur. Rotten eggs.” He says. That doesn’t really answer the demons thing. 

“Yuck.” You say it out loud as you text it. 

“You ain’t lyin.”   
“Gotta go, about to interview an old lady. Cross your fingers her house smells better.” 

You send back some crossed fingers and then lay in bed, smiling like a big dope. 

You wonder about his job some more. He’s a hunter, one who gets hurt on the job, but he also calls his work “cases”, and he interviews people for it. It doesn’t really add up to you, but you figure it’s just because you don’t know the details. 

An hour later your phone dings. “Her house did NOT smell better. Nothin against cats but 20 may be a few too many.” 

“She has TWENTY cats?!” 

“By the looks of the cat hair on my suit pants, yes.” 

Random texts like this flow between you throughout the day. It somehow feels like you’re spending time together, even though he’s nowhere near you. Or maybe he is? You don’t know where he is. 

That night you settle on your couch. Wine bottle nearby, a glass in your hand, you snap a picture of your hand holding up the glass in front of the TV, classic 80’s movie your backdrop. 

It takes a few minutes and he sends one back. You can see his jeans, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle on the bland hotel room bed. His socks are white and even his feet look manly somehow. He’s holding up a beer can in one big hand, the same movie on the TV across the room. 

You wonder if he picks apart the details of your pictures like you do his.

“Found the same movie on cable,” his text says. 

It’s the nicest Saturday night you’ve had in a long time, and you stay up way too late. The wine makes you flirty again. 

Texting is so easy with him. He has the same sense of humor. He makes comments on things you were thinking before you text them out. It’s like you’re old friends. 

“That guy’s hot,” you say about a random guy on the third movie you’re watching together. 

“That jock guy?” 

“Yeah. The one in the letterman jacket.” 

“You know he’s probably 60 now.”   
“Hell he looks 30 there and it’s 1985.”

You bark out a laugh. “Well he was hot in 1985 then.” 

“Eh. He’s ok I guess.” 

“Oh yeah? Are you better looking?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve been told I’m not half bad.” 

“Let’s see it.” You send the text then your stomach flips. You sit up on the couch, suddenly nervous. 

“Not when I’m half asleep and buzzing.”

That’s a let down, but also a relief. You feel like you weren’t ready to see his face tonight. 

“What about you?” He asks. 

What about you? Is he asking for a picture? Hell no, you look like shit and you’re half drunk. 

“Maybe tomorrow.” You realize after you sent it that it might have sounded a little short. You didn’t intend it that way. “You don’t want a picture of a half drunk girl right now.” You send. 

He doesn’t respond for a minute and you get sucked back into the movie. A bedroom scene is heating up, and the wine coursing your veins is making you flush. 

“Is it weird that I’m nervous to see your face?” 

The text from him jolts you out of the sex scene. You practically fan yourself to calm down. 

“No. I feel the same.” 

He doesn’t reply for a while, and when a commercial comes up you start to feel strange about his silence. 

“You’ve already seen my legs though. That’s a bigger portion of my body than my head anyway.” 

He replies in seconds. “It’s a damn fine set of legs too.” He sends a winky face afterwards. 

A streak of boldness hits you, or maybe it’s the wine, who knows. Whatever it is makes you throw the blanket aside. You pull your gown up just a hair to expose a little thigh, bending your knees to get just the right angle. You snap a pic and hit send. 

Three texts come through back to back. 

“Damn”  
“Fine”  
“Legs” 

He sends you a picture a second later. He’s in boxer briefs, you can see just the bottom of them on his thighs. His feet are still crossed at the ankles, white socks in place, but his long, muscular legs are stretched out. 

You want to straddle those thighs so bad it makes an ache between your legs. 

“You got a nice looking set of legs yourself.” You hit send and curse yourself for not thinking of something smarter, whittier, sexier. 

“Nothing compared to yours.” 

There’s moaning coming from the TV. You can’t think while you listen to that. 

You feel like you need to say something in this pause. “Sorry, this movie is doing things to me.” 

“Same here.” 

You can’t think about that. You can’t think about him listening to this moaning and it doing things to him like it’s doing things to you. 

“Looking at your legs is doing things too,” he tells you. 

Ohh god. You’ve got to release some of this frustration. You slide your hand high up on your thigh, feeling the smooth skin. You press it over the heat between your legs and close your eyes. That boldness shoots through you again. Or maybe it’s stupidity. It’s probably stupidity. 

You snap a picture of your hand between your legs. You’ve got panties on, and your gown is partially obscuring things, so it doesn’t really show anything. You send it anyway. 

His response is instant. 

“Fuck.” 

Yeah. That’s exactly what you’d like to do. You don’t get to tell him that because a picture pops up. 

The outline of his hard cock is easy to make out in his boxer briefs. It’s one of the sexiest things you’ve ever seen and it’s showing zero skin. 

You moan out loud as you put some pressure on your clit. 

“I’m gonna have to take care of this.” He tells you. 

“Me too.” You spread your legs, pushing your hand down the front of your panites, wishing like hell it was his hand finding your clit and not your own. 

“Thinking about that is gonna make me blow.” 

Somehow he manages to make you laugh in the midst of being so turned on. 

You open your legs wider, almost obscenely wide, and hold the phone just over your chest. A little of your tummy is showing where your gown is hitched up, but all you can really see is your knees and thighs, and a hand stuffed in your underwear. 

You send it. 

“Oh fuck”  
“You’re killin me” 

He follows up with a picture of his hand gripping his cock through the fabric of his briefs. There’s a large wet spot on the tip, and the size of it in his hand makes you ache for something inside you. 

You swirl your fingers around your clit, and then push two inside you. You fumble with the phone at the feel of them. It’s not the fullness you want but they’ll work.

Once you regain control of the phone you see it snapped a picture. Somehow you pressed the screen and it rotated to selfie. You can’t see your face, your head had fallen back, your neck arched and exposed. A little of your collar bone shows, and it’s obvious your mouth is hanging open. You’re pretty sure you whispered his name right there. 

You’re not telling him that. 

You send the picture. Fuck it, why not? He can’t see your face. Not technically a selfie. 

“Jesus,” he replies.   
“That’s hot as hell.” 

The next picture he sends has his hand down his boxer briefs. It’s obvious he’s gripping his cock hard, although you can’t see it. 

You want to tell him so many things. That you want to touch him, stroke his cock for him, tease it with your tongue, make him come so hard he can’t breathe. You don’t text any of that. Somehow, even though you’re half drunk, you know that saying that puts the expectation out there that you’ll meet this guy. 

You have no idea if that will ever happen. You don’t know if you want that to happen. 

That’s a lie. You want that to happen. 

“I want to come.” You tell him. 

You know what you like, you know exactly how to touch yourself to get what you want, but you’ve never been so frustrated that it wasn’t someone else touching you than you are right now. 

You want Dean touching you. 

There’s a pause in texts and you know what he’s doing. You’re doing the same. 

“I’m close.” He says after a few minutes. 

“Me too.” You manage to reply. 

“Come for me.” 

It’s like a bolt of electricity shoots directly to your clit when you read those three words. You come, hard, dropping your phone. When it’s over you’re panting, smiling like a fool up at your living room ceiling. The blanket is tossed on the floor, your panties hanging from one ankle, one leg hiked over the back of the couch. 

You’re a mess basically. 

Your phone dings. 

“You good?” He’s asking. 

Good? Are you good? That’s an understatement. “Hell yeah.” Your reply sounds like something he’d say. He’s rubbing off on you. 

“Damn. I needed that.” 

“You and me both,” you tell him. It’s the truth. 

Your brain is fuzzy from your orgasm. The endorphins and the alcohol making you sleepy all of a sudden. The movie is still playing, the sex scene long over. 

“This movie is stupid.” You pick up the room and shut off the TV, heading off for the bathroom and then bed. 

“Yeah, must only have one good scene.” He sends a laughing face. 

You knew he’d be laughing at that. 

Once you’re settled in bed with your phone on the charger you’re fighting sleep immediately. You want to text him something but you don’t know what to say. 

Your phone dings in your hand.

“Sorry if I crash on you, sweetheart. I’m wiped.”

“Me too. Get some sleep.” 

You shut the lamp off and sleep.

*****

You blink awake on Sunday morning with a groan. You’re not hungover, per se, but you’re definitely feeling some regret. 

You reach for your phone and look back through what you sent. You were both obviously a little intoxicated. Not shit faced drunk, you could still text obviously, but you had both let your guard down. 

Looking back over the conversation, and subsequent pictures, it’s not as bad as what you imagined. No one showed any skin, really. Except for legs, but that’s not really risque. And neither of you really said anything super naughty to the other. It’s like you were both aware of an invisible line, and you’d stayed careful not to cross it. 

You feel better after looking back over it. You also feel a little turned on. You study the picture of his legs, the outline of his cock. His hand looks strong, rough, like he works hard. 

You imagine his hands are warm, that he might slide them up your side, over your ribs. He’d cup your breast, calloused thumb skimming over your nipple. 

Your hand trails down between your thighs…

You look at the picture of his hand gripping his cock inside his underwear. The wet spot at the tip had gotten bigger from one picture to the next. You imagine what he’d taste like, salty and maybe a little bitter. He’d smell so good, you know he would. 

You wish he’d sent some video. You’d love to see how he touched himself, maybe hear his voice. That’s something you hadn’t thought of, what his voice would sound like. 

You’re getting close now, hips rocking in time with your fingers. God you wish you could feel his hands on you. You’d give anything for it. 

Your fingers slide in the wetness of your arousal. You imagine they’re his fingers. You add a little more pressure, because his hands would be stronger than yours. You slip two fingers inside and use your thumb on your clit. 

 

“Dean…” You whisper to the empty room. 

You’re coming in no time. Twice in under twelve hours. You haven’t done that in awhile. 

You lay there, wondering what you’re doing. How are you in this situation a week after a wrong number text? Is it possible you could actually like someone you’ve never seen? Never heard their voice? What if he’s nothing like you think he is, what if this is all some kind of ruse? 

That seems farfetched though. What guy would go to that much trouble when they get a wrong number? Wouldn’t they at least be pursuing women they know? That they’ve _seen_? 

You need to settle down. Your mind is reeling. You decide to shower. 

The hot water washes away the uneasiness. After you dress and grab your keys, heading out for your weekly grocery run, your grab your phone. 

A text came in while you were showering. 

“We okay after last night?” 

God, he seems like such a good guy. Could that all really just be an act? 

You shake your head at yourself, not letting yourself go there again. 

“Yeah, we are. Are you okay?” You send it. 

He responds right away. “I’m better than okay.” 

You don’t know what that means for sure, but you’re pretty certain it’s good. 

“Heading out for groceries,” you send, followed by an eyeroll. 

“We call that a supply run.” 

You laugh. “You and Sam are weird.” 

“Sammy’s the weird one.” 

And with that, you’re back to normal. 

Sunday is nice, relaxing. That evening you text about your favorite foods. He’s at a diner that boasts about having “the world’s best burger.” 

There's a pause while you're sure he's eating, and then he texts again. 

 

You get ready for the week while you chat with Dean about pie and other normal things that evening, and then you head to bed in plenty of time for a good night's sleep. 

Monday still comes too soon. 

******

“You’re not one of those people that’s gonna go postal at work, right?” Dean is teasing you about how much you hate your job. Monday was just that great. 

“Shut up.” You’ve eaten dinner, had a glass of wine and a bath, and now you’re settled in bed. 

“Can’t do it, beautiful.” 

You shake your head at his choice of words. It’s a strange endearment for someone he’s never seen. 

“How do you know I’m beautiful?” 

“Oh I know.” 

You stare at your phone. You’re dying to know what he looks like. Does he feel the same? Why doesn’t he ask? Most guys that’s the first thing they want. If you don’t supply a beautiful selfie within the first ten minutes they’re out. But not Dean. You wonder why. 

Your phone dings, shaking you out of your thoughts. You rarely hear that sound anymore, you’re both usually texting so fast that it’s not needed. 

“You ever think about meeting?” 

Woah. You were not expecting that. He jumped right past the selfie into the deep end. 

“No pressure,” he quickly adds. 

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” 

There’s silence. It goes on so long that your phone screen goes black. Probably because what you said wasn’t really an answer. You said you’d thought about it, but not if you thought it was a good or bad idea. 

“You ever wonder what I look like?” You send it fast before you chicken out. 

“Every second of the day.” 

That eases your mind. You close your eyes and smile softly. 

“I wonder what you look like too.” You send back. 

“You askin’ me to take a selfie?” 

You’re suddenly nervous. You’ve built this guy up. What if you don’t find him attractive now? But can you really go on not knowing? 

No. You can’t. 

“Yes.” 

“You sending one too?” 

“Sure.” What the hell. You’re not taking one right this second though. You’re in bed after a bath and wine. 

You pick a good one and hit send, stomach twisting in knots. 

“Dam.” he responds. 

What does that mean? Is that a good or a bad damn? 

“I knew you were beautiful.” 

That’s got you beaming from ear to ear. 

“Here’s my ugly mug.” 

You stare at your phone. You know he took this picture seconds ago. He’s pointing at himself and making a face, but he’s still handsome. Like, really handsome. 

“Damn yourself, Dean Winchester,” you whisper to your empty bedroom. 

You reply, and what pops up next makes you almost drop your phone. 

You sit straight up in bed. “Holy shit.” Your voice is loud in the silence. He’s fucking _hot_. Handsome is out the window, this guy is on the level of _woah_. 

What do you say now? Your brain is jello. Ummm…

“You’re beautiful,” you text back, and instantly regret it. Not that it isn’t true, but you could have said it better. 

“I don’t know about all that lol.” 

His answer has you smiling again. You text him before he can change his mind. 

“What were you saying about meeting?” 

He sends a laughing face. “Yeah, I’d like to sometime. Maybe if we’re ever close to your town?”

Well that’s more vague than you were wanting. Huh. Maybe he’s not as excited to meet as you are? 

“That would be great, just let me know.” You try to fake some nonchalance. 

“It would help if I knew where you lived.” 

Oh. Oh, duh. God you’re an idiot sometimes. 

“Yeah, that would probably help,” you reply, laughing. You send him your city and state. 

“A couple states away from our next hunt,” he says. 

What does that mean? Is he saying that’s close? Or too far? You have no idea. 

“Oh yeah?” That’s a horrible response. Why did you send that? Why are you suddenly freaking out because you know he’s attractive? 

You keep scrolling up to see his picture again. You finally just save it to your phone. You’re such a loser. 

“Yeah, meeting up with an old family friend for this one. Haven’t seen him in awhile. He’s a good guy.” 

From what you’ve seen those words are genuine affection from Dean. 

“That sounds like fun.” Why do you keep texting him lame stuff? You shake your head at yourself. 

“I don’t know about fun, but it’ll be good to see him.” 

You’re staring at his picture. You’ve got to get it together. He’s still the same guy, now you just know he’s insanely hot. 

“So you think we should talk on the phone sometime?” Dammit. He’s blindsided you again. 

“I don’t know?” And you really don’t. You want to know what he sounds like. You’d love to hear his voice. But something is telling you that you should leave some things to surprises for when you finally meet. 

“What do you think?” You ask. 

“I don’t know either.”

Well, that’s good at least. You’re both undecided. 

“How about we leave that for when we meet?” He asks. 

“Yeah, I like that idea.” That’s the truth too. 

You chat for awhile longer, staring at his picture in between. When you finally shut your eyes to sleep it’s Dean’s face you see. 

*****

The week is going to be torture. By Tuesday evening you know it’s going to feel like a month before Friday arrives. You hope for a better day on Wednesday, but it’s a bust when your only distraction, Dean, is missing in action. 

He’s on a hunt, he told you that. He and his brother met up with an old family friend, and Tuesday evening he told you he might be hard to reach because they were entering spotty cell service territory. But when you head to bed on Wednesday and you haven’t heard from him in 24 hours you can’t help but worry. 

You’re worried about him, of course, but you’re also worried about how dependant you’ve become on him in such a short amount of time. Without him texting you almost feel lost. That can’t be good. 

When you crawl into bed you play with your phone, toying around with it. You finally decide to shoot him a message. It’s probably a bad idea, you’ll look clingy, but oh well. 

“Hey, hope you’re ok. Been thinking about you today. Be careful.” 

It’s the closest to an admission about feelings as you’ve come, and it’s still nowhere near telling him how you feel. You hit send, plug your phone in, and head to bed. 

At 2:00 am your phone rings. It’s not a text message, it’s a call. You grab your phone, startled awake instantly, and see Dean’s face on the caller id. You don’t even think, sitting straight up in bed. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s me.” 

His voice is so deep. You barely have time to register that though, because you know something is wrong. He wouldn’t be calling at this time if there wasn’t. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I am, I’m uh,” he pauses, letting out a sigh. “No, I’m not. Not really.” 

You throw the blankets aside, sitting up on the side of the bed. “What happened?”

“It’s Bill,” he says, and then there’s just silence. 

You don’t know why he’s not talking. After a few seconds you say something. “Dean? Is Bill ok?” 

“No.” His voice sounds far away. It makes your heart ache. 

“What happened?” 

He takes a deep breath, while you assume he’s gathering his thoughts. When he starts talking his voice sounds wrecked. “We got split up. I couldn’t find him so I circled back and I”, he pauses for a beat, “I didn’t make it in time. I found him on the ground,” his voice breaks on the last word and he doesn’t go on. You’re not sure if he can go on. 

“Oh my God, Dean,” you don’t know what to say here. What’s the right thing to say? “I’m so sorry.” That doesn’t seem like enough. It doesn’t mean anything, really. It sounds hollow. 

After a few seconds he clears his throat. “Yeah, me too.” 

“I don’t know what to say,” you tell him softly. “I wish I knew what to do.” 

“It’s okay. You don’t need to do anything. I just wanted to talk to someone, and Sam, he’s pretty tore up about Bill too. I wanted to leave him alone. I just,” He pauses and you can almost hear him swallow. “It’s my fault. I shoulda been there. If I had stopped moving, looked for him sooner. I should have looked for him sooner, then I woulda been there. I could have stopped it.” 

“Hey, no,” you say soft but firmly. You might not have been there but you know well enough that Dean would never had let this happen if it could have been avoided. “This is not your fault. Accidents happen, and you can’t take the blame for this. It will weigh you down. If you could have stopped it you would have. I know that. Bill knew that. So does Sam.”

“Yeah,” he takes a deep shaky breath. You don’t let yourself think about him crying. “I’m sorry, we weren’t supposed to do this.” 

You know what he means. You weren’t supposed to talk on the phone. That seems so stupid now, and it’s not something he should be worried about. “No, it’s fine,” you try to reassure him. 

“I just, I didn’t want to be alone. You’re the first person I thought to call. I forgot we weren’t supposed to talk until we met, guess I screwed that up too.”

“Stop it, you didn’t screw anything up. I’m glad you called me.” You take a shaky breath yourself before adding, “besides, I like the sound of your voice.” 

“Yeah, me too,” you think you can hear a smile in his words. “Yours, I mean. I like the sound of yours.” 

You can’t help a little laugh. “I know what you mean.” 

There’s a pause where you smile stupidly at your feet, and then he finally speaks. 

“You got plans this weekend? I think I need a break, thought about driving over.” 

Your heart skips. “No, no plans at all.” 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t invite myself. That makes me sound like a loser--”

You cut him off. “Dean, it’s fine. I’d love it if you came this weekend. Really.” 

“Alright.” You know you can hear a smile in his voice this time. “That’s uh, that’s good.”

There’s another pause and something tells you his thoughts have turned sad again. 

“Listen,” you say, hoping you can say something to help, “I really am sorry about Bill. He sounds like a good guy. If you need to talk I’m here, any time. Okay?” 

“Thank you,” he takes a deep breath, “listen, I’m gonna go grab something to drink. I’ll see you this weekend.” 

“Okay, you take care.” 

“Yeah, I will. You too, sweetheart.” 

You both hang up and you sit there. There’s no way you’re going back to sleep. You shouldn’t have ended the call. You should have talked to him all night, just listened to the sound of that voice. 

You lay down. You might as well, there’s nothing else to do at two in the morning. You thought the weekend was a long way away before, now it’s never going to be here. Not with looking forward to Dean coming. 

*****

Thursday is more of struggle than you could imagine. A few hours of dozing after you hung up with Dean just doesn’t cut it. When your phone vibrates with a text from him about 11:00 you blink, take a big drink of coffee, and try to wake yourself up. 

“Sorry I woke you last night,” he says. 

He’s tugging at your heart strings now. He shouldn’t feel bad, he had a friend die. Anyone would need to talk after that. 

“No, it’s fine. I’m glad I could be there. How are you feeling today?” 

“Rough.” 

You figured. He’d mentioned getting a drink when he hung up, which you figured was code for getting drunk. 

Your phone vibrates in your hand. “Ready to be on the road to see you.” 

Your heart swells, and then the nerves set in again. Those nerves had amped you up too much after the phone call last night. Your head starts spinning. 

What if it’s weird between you?   
What if it turns out he doesn’t like you?  
What if you don’t like him?  
What if he wants sex? (Of course he’ll want sex, most guys would.)  
What if you want sex? (Of course you’ll want sex, he’s gorgeous.)  
Will you have sex right away?   
What if it’s bad?

You shake yourself off and take a calming breath. 

“I’m ready to see you too.” You tell him. 

Your head starts a list of things you need to do before he arrives. 

Clean.   
Go grocery shopping.   
Shave everything. (Is that stupid? Probably too much. But you want to be prepared. But what if he doesn’t like everything shaved? What then? UGH.)  
Laundry.  
Clean.  
Buy some extra blankets. (Well, maybe not? If he sleeps on the couch you need extra blankets, but if he sleeps with you…)

Your phone vibrates. 

“Talked to Sam. He’s got a friend he wants to see that’s close by. I’m dropping him off and then driving straight through. Should be there late on Friday. I can crash and then meet you for breakfast Saturday?”

He can crash? Does he mean he’s getting a room somewhere? You just assumed he’d stay with you. Maybe he’s being polite and doesn’t want to assume? Should you offer? Why is this so weird? 

“You’re welcome to stay with me. I’ve got plenty of room.” You add that last part just in case he doesn’t want to share a room with you. Or sleep with you. Or whatever. 

The list of things you need to do before he arrives is growing in your head. That, plus the lack of sleep, means absolutely nothing is getting done at work today. 

“We’ll see what time I get into town.” 

You don’t know if that means he wants to stay or not. He texts again. 

“Hopefully it won’t be too late.” 

Ok, that means he wants to stay. It has to. 

You wonder if he’s overthinking everything just as much as you are, because this is getting ridiculous. 

“Sounds good,” you reply, just because you feel like you need to say something. 

You look around you. You can’t do this. You can’t be here. It’s torture, especially with all the things you want to get done. 

That’s it, you decide. You’re faking sick and getting the hell out of here. 

You’re not sure your supervisor believes your performance, but you can’t even make yourself care. When you leave you practically start skipping when you get out of the building. 

And then the work starts. 

Dean checks in every few hours. He finally stops to catch a few hours sleep in the car about midnight. You wish he was there with you, in your bed, next to you. You force yourself to close your eyes and try to sleep. 

*****

Friday you don’t even try to work. You faked sick today, might as well milk it through the weekend. You work around the house, trying to get ready for Dean’s arrival, even though it will probably be so late that he won’t even notice. 

When he texts you that afternoon and says he made better time than he thought and asks if you want to meet for dinner that evening you’re torn. 

You’re excited, obviously. And nervous, obviously. But you’re also a little upset, because you thought he’d come here first thing. But now he’s wanting to meet you at a place close by, asking for recommendations, and it’s throwing you off. 

But maybe you should meet in public? You feel like you know Dean, but there’s always that nagging voice in the back of your brain asking, _do you really?_ Do you know him at all? 

“There’s a bar a couple blocks from here. They have great burgers. That sound okay?” You text back. 

“Sounds perfect. I’m getting back on the road now, I’ll meet you at eight.” 

And there you are. You have a time. You’re going to see him in just a few hours. You’ll be face to face with Dean Winchester at 8:00 tonight.

Your stomach flips just thinking about it, and you set off to get ready. 

When you walk into the bar and look around you don’t see him. The bar is packed. The place is popular, and Friday nights are always busy. It makes a sea of people that you can’t quite navigate. 

You walk slowly, looking around, and then you see him. He’s at the bar, his back to you, sipping from a beer bottle. His flannel shirt is stretched tight across his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He exudes masculinity. 

You’re drawn to him, and you step closer, wanting to say his name. He doesn’t know you’re behind him. You haven’t seen his face yet, but your nerves make you want to run away. You seriously consider it, until someone bumps you. 

You stumble slightly, your hand coming up to catch yourself. Your palm lands on Dean’s back and he turns. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say, smiling at him, “someone bumped into me.” 

He grins, smile lines forming at the corners of the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. “Can’t wait to get your hands on me, huh, sweetheart?” 

Your laugh is nervous, and you figure he can tell. You tell yourself to settle down, this is the same guy you’ve been texting for weeks. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Should we get a table?” You ask him. 

He looks around, over your head. “I think there’s one open back in the corner. You want a beer?” 

You nod. “Whatever you’re having,” you tell him. You set off for the table while he orders a couple beers to bring back with him. 

You watch the women check him out as he strides towards you. He doesn’t seem to notice the eyes following him across the room. He doesn’t look anywhere but at you. 

“Here ya go,” he sits a beer down in front of you and then takes a seat on the other side of the table. 

“Thanks,” you take a giant gulp, hoping the alcohol will help settle your nerves. “So how was the drive?” 

“Really good. Got here early actually.” He waves to a waitress, who says she’ll be to the table in just a minute. “I’m starving. You know what you want?” 

You nod. “You could have eaten, you didn’t need to wait on me.” You’re so nervous you probably won’t be able to eat anyway. 

“Hell no,” he sips his beer, eyeing you. 

You take another drink. Your beer is half gone. By the time the waitress arrives it’s totally gone. 

You both order, and then you tell her to bring you another beer. 

“You nervous?” He asks bluntly. 

“A little,” you admit. “You?” 

“Kinda,” he says. “‘Dunno why, feels like I know you.” 

That voice. It’s so deep. It’s the kind of voice you can almost feel on your skin somehow, like it could touch you. 

“Yeah, me too. I keep reminding myself you could be a serial killer.” 

He laughs at that, a deep, hearty laugh. “You could be too, ya know.” 

You feign shock. “Me? Doubtful. Women aren’t serial killers, didn’t you know?” 

“There’ve been a few, but you’re right. It’s usually men. Not me, though.” 

You try not to smile. “Promise?” 

One corner of his mouth turns up and he sips his beer through a smile before he answers. “Promise,” he says, eyes dancing. 

Somehow admitting to your nerves eases the tension between you, or maybe it’s the beer. Before you know it hours have passed. You’ve eaten, drunk, laughed, talked, flirted, and teased. 

His boot bumps your shoe under the table every so often. The first time he apologized, but now he’s not moving it away. You relax your leg, making your shin rest against the heat of his in the too small confines under the table. The way he licks his lips makes you think he notices. 

You watch him. You can’t take your eyes off him really. He might be the most attractive man you’ve ever seen. 

He’s so warm, so quick to smile. He’s calm, but somehow animated, full of life. He seems relaxed no matter what, like he’s in control of the situation. 

He winks at you a couple times, making you feel like a teenager again. It seems silly, but the butterflies in your stomach betray you. 

Conversation goes on, and when you’re telling a story and get a little too animated with your hands, almost knocking a beer bottle over, you both reach for it at the same time. Your hand grabs it first, and his closes over yours a second later. The contact is brief, but he rubs a thumb over the back of your hand before pulling away. Your skin tingles there. 

The bar starts to wind down at some point, although neither of you notice. When the waitress tells you it’s last call and asks if you want anything you blink up at her in disbelief. 

“Guess I should be finding a room for the night,” he says when she walks away. 

Shit. Your nerves flood back. Does he not want to stay with you? You thought this went well. Better than well, actually. But maybe he doesn’t feel the same? What the hell do you do now?

“You’re more than welcome to stay with me, Dean. Really.” You try to sound cool and collected, and it must work, because he smiles. 

“You sure? Didn’t know if that serial killer thing was still bothering you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Well, it wasn’t until you said that.” 

He chuckles a little. “I don’t want to put you out.” 

“You’re not, honestly.” 

He nods a little, pulling out his wallet as the waitress approaches again. He pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to her. “Keep the change,” he says. 

“Dean, you don’t have to pay for everything. I have money.” 

“No big deal, I got it.” He stands, stretching, and you realize how long he’s been sitting. He went from a car to a bar. He’s probably dying to stretch out. 

An image of him stretched out on your bed flashes through your mind. You push it away before it takes on a life of its own. He really is insanely handsome.

He lets you lead the way out of the bar, his hand on your lower back as he follows. You swallow, the contact making your brain freeze for a second. 

"Hop in," he says, leading you to his car. You walked to the bar and he knows that. 

The inside of his car smells like leather. There's a faint hint of whiskey too, and really good smelling after shave. You close your eyes for a second, trying to memorize that smell.

You're only in the car for a few minutes, and then he's parking in front of your place, and somehow time is in fast forward, because you're unlocking the door without remembering walking up to it. Then he's inside, taking up space in your living room, seeming too large for it somehow. 

He looks around, talking everything in. When his eyes land on you he smiles, seemingly relaxed, where as you feel like a live wire. 

What should you do? Offer him something to drink? You just left the bar where you spent hours drinking. He shouldn't be hungry, you just ate not long ago. Maybe he wants to sleep? Maybe he'd rather go straight to bed. Is he going to your bed? That thought makes you look away from him. 

"Can I get you anything?" 

"No thanks." He sits on the couch, crossing his legs. 

You sit beside him, though a safe distance away. Safe from what you're not sure. The silence is suddenly uncomfortable. The bar had been easy, like texting with him. The people surrounding you made you feel less conspicuous, not the focus of his full attention. Now, where ever he looks he sees something of yours, a representation of you, and it makes you feel exposed. 

"Nice place," he tells you. 

"Thanks," you glance around, "I like it here." 

"Yeah, I would too." 

You try not to overthink the implication in those words. Is he saying he'd like to live with you? No way. Way too early for that. 

"So, how long are you staying?" You feel awful after you ask it. It sounds like you want him to leave already, and that's not what you meant at all. You were trying to make casual conversation, not give him an eviction date. 

"'Dunno," he turns toward you slightly on the couch, knee bumping your thigh in the small space. "After Bill I kinda need to take a little time, get my head straight again." The sadness that crosses his face at the mention of Bill makes your heart ache. 

"Dean," you say softly, your hand reaching out to touch his thigh, "I'm so sorry about what happened."

He looks at your hand, where it rests on his leg. "Yeah, me too." He doesn't move to touch you, he just stares at your hand like it's not even there. 

You slowly pull away, realizing he may not want you to touch him. Some people want to be left alone in their grief, working through it in their own way. Maybe Dean is one of them. But why would he be here then? 

You place your hand back in your lap. It's cold after the warmth of his thigh, and you rub your hands together absently. 

You aren't expecting it when he reaches out. He takes your hand in his, fingers wrapping under your palm, the rough pad of his thumb sliding over your knuckles. 

"Thank you for letting me come here," he says. His voice is almost a whisper. He blinks rapidly, but he doesn't meet your eyes. 

You squeeze his fingers. "Of course, you're welcome any time." 

He licks his lips, and in this moment you shouldn't think dirty things, but you do. 

"Can I use your bathroom?"

His question is so abrupt that it catches you off guard. You stand, hand pulling out of his. "Yeah, follow me." 

He follows you into your bedroom and without saying anything you watch as he closes the bathroom door behind him. 

He's obviously broken up over Bill, as anyone would be. He seems sad in a way that makes him weary, and no matter how hard he tries to hide it he can't maintain the charade. 

When he comes out of the bathroom you realize you've been standing there the whole time. You should have gone back to the living room, given him privacy. You'd been too lost in your thoughts. 

He stops outside the bathroom door after flipping off the light behind him. He looks at you, and you look straight back. There's tension in the room, tension that builds between you like electricity. 

He suddenly moves toward you with determination. You stand your ground, not backing up, expecting him to kiss you. 

He doesn't. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close, his face dropping down into your hair. He hugs you tightly, his breath coming in shaky drags of his chest. 

You hug him back, as tight as you can, and hold him there. You don't know how long you stand there, letting him ground himself, but it's a long time. His body is so warm and sturdy, arms so strong they could break you if they wanted. His feet are outside yours, so it's like he's engulfing you, and you relax into it. 

He pulls away finally. It's a slow untangling, and as he drops his head to kiss your cheek you happen to turn, causing him to catch the corner of your mouth. It was accidental and you know it, but you can't help quickly pecking him directly on the lips. It's instinct more than anything, and something you immediately wish you could take back, because he seems surprised. 

He takes half a step back, putting distance between you. He drops his head, looking at his shoes, rubbing a hand up the back of his head. "I should probably get some sleep. You got a pillow for the couch?" 

And there it is. That's your answer. He's not interested in anything but a friendship with you. You try not to let disappointment show on your face, clearing your throat and quickly shifting into hostess mode. "Sure, let me grab you some things." 

With an arm full of blankets and pillows you lead him back to the living room. When you try to make up the couch for him, laying a sheet down first, he stops you. 

"I got this. You go to bed, I'm sure you're tired. I kept you up way too late." He smiles, looking weary himself. 

You try to smile back, though it's hard, and nod. "Okay. Night, Dean." 

He nods, taking the blankets from your hands. "Night." 

You quitely retire to your bedroom, closing the door behind you with a soft click. You try not to let yourself drown in self pity as you change for bed, but it's hard. When your head hits the pillow you want to cry, but that's stupid. You shouldn't have had expectations for this. That wasn't fair or realistic of you. He's never lead you on, or said anything to make you believe this was anything more than a friendship. 

Well, there were the pictures. The ones of his cock. Or the outline of his cock really. And the sexting. Although even that wasn't really like any graphic sexting you'd done before. 

No, you knew you might be expecting too much. You knew it and you did it anyway, and now you had to let it go and try to be a friend. What he needs right now is a friend. He just lost one, he needs you to help him through that. 

You sigh and roll over, putting your back to the door, and you finally sleep. 

*****

The next morning your first thought is if he's even still here. Maybe kissing him sent him running for the hills. It wouldn't surprise you. You don't let yourself peek into the living room though. Instead, you shower, not letting yourself think about the sex you won’t be having with Dean. 

It’s probably for the best really. There’s no way he could live up to the expectations you’ve set for him in your head. It wouldn’t be possible. And really, for him to be this attractive _and_ good in bed? That just wouldn’t be fair. 

After the shower you throw on your most comfortable lounge clothes. No reason to dress to impress at this point. 

When you step out of your bedroom you're actually surprised to find him on the couch. He's propped up, one arm behind his head, flipping through TV channels. 

"Mornin'," he says, looking you up and down. 

"Hey, how'd you sleep?" 

He gives a non committed shrug. "You mind if I shower?" 

"Knock yourself out." 

He grabs a duffel bag that wasn't there last night, and you realize that at some point he must have gone back out to his car to get it. He didn't leave though, so he must not hate you. There's that.

You piddle around the kitchen, going over your breakfast options while you listen to the water running in the shower. When it finally cuts off you've compiled a list of things to offer him. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, waffles, cereal. 

When you turn around he's standing in the doorway watching you. He's absently rubbing at his wet hair, making it stick up in all directions. He's thrown a white t-shirt on, and it's clinging to wet spots on his skin. He's got on flannel pants, and you stupidly wonder if flannel is a trademark for him. Maybe he always has to be wearing something flannel, like a lucky charm. The thought makes you want to laugh, but you don't, because his words catch you off guard. 

"Did I screw this up last night?" 

You blink at him, his green eyes leaving you stupid for a second. "What?" 

He takes a few steps closer, his bare feet silent on your kitchen floor. He moves until the table is the only thing between you. 

He motions back and forth at the space separating you. "This. Did I screw this up?" 

This? Does he mean the friendship? "No, of course not." You shake your head, not knowing what else to say. 

He's watching you too closely. His eyes search your face, staring at your mouth, studying your eyes. "So, we're good?" 

"Yeah, we're fine, Dean." You turn away toward the counter, not able to face the probing feeling of his eyes for another second. "Do you know what you want for breakfast? I've got eggs and bacon, pancakes, cereal," you furrow your brow, thinking. "Or waffles. I can make waffles if you want." 

"What about you," his voice is so close behind you it makes you jump. 

You can't turn, because he's stepped so near. You hear the towel hit the floor, and his hands land hesitantly on your hips. 

"Are you on the menu?" His low voice says, right by your ear.

_Oh god._ You close your eyes, feeling him press up to your back. He's all heat and muscle, hard and soft at the same time, and it makes you ache. 

"Dean," you whisper. 

He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "I didn't want to rush this," he kisses your neck, breath hot on your skin, "wanted to do this right, go slow. That's what Bill told me to do." His scruff brushes you ear and you shiver. "Don't rush it Dean, take your time with this one, that's what he told me." 

He talked to Bill about you, that fact doesn't escape your lust clouded brain. You can't help arching your back, pressing back into him. 

"Mmm," he hums into your ear at the contact. One arm slides around you, pulling you as close as possible. "Was afraid I messed it up last night, laid there for hours and barely slept. Wanted to come get in bed with you so bad." 

"Why didn't you?" You push back, knowing full well it’s forcing your ass against his crotch. He’s barely touched you and you’re already getting worked up. 

“I tried to take Bill’s advice,” he pushes into you with his hips, “I failed.” 

You smile, though he can’t see it. “I thought you just wanted to be friends. Kinda figured I screwed it up when I kissed you, thought you might leave in the middle of the night.” You're working your ass against his crotch, not able to control your body. It knows what it wants, and no matter how much your brain tries to talk it down, slow it down, your body seems to have a mind of its own. 

He pulls back just enough to spin you, and then he’s pressed up to your front, looking down into your eyes. “That what you want? Just friends?” 

His palm cups the side of your neck, fingers sliding into your hair, thumb tilting your chin up. Your lips part slightly, but you can’t think well enough to speak. You give a small shake of your head. No, just friends is not what you want. Not at all. 

He moves slowly to kiss you, head lowering, and he hesitates just before your lips meet. His eyes seem to dance over your face, taking in your expression, and when your lips finally touch those mesmerizing eyes close. 

It’s slow at first, and you notice how soft those perfect lips are. They’re warm, gentle. He blinks as he adjusts his head, turning it to the side, and when he kisses you again you can feel a smile on his mouth. He must have liked what he saw when he looked at you. 

Your mouth opens before his, but as soon as it does his lips part and his tongue is tasting you. You realize you’ve been holding your breath, but you don’t know how long. Long enough for your lungs to suddenly be aching, and you’re short of breath when you breathe. 

This is it. This is what you’ve been thinking about for days. Him. His mouth. His kiss. His hands on you, palms flat, fingers digging into the skin of your lower back like he’s holding on, afraid you’ll run. 

You can’t help the little yelp that escapes when he easily lifts you, sitting you on the edge of the counter. Your legs naturally part, letting him step between them. His hands graze your sides, slide up your arms, touch your face, like he can’t get enough of _feeling_ you. 

You can’t seem to get enough of feeling him either. Your hands are tugging up the back of his shirt, feeling the warm skin of his back. 

The kiss deepens, both of you exploring the other, taking your time. He nips your bottom lip occasionally, pulling back to look at you with hooded, dark eyes. His hands behind your hips slide you closer, and you wrap your legs behind his back. 

He’s hard, and the length of his cock is pressed flush between your legs. You want to moan. You want to wrap your hand around it. You want him inside you, but you’re trying not to rush this. It’s too good to rush, too perfect so far. 

“You okay with this?” He whispers against you skin, running kisses along your jaw. 

You nod, hand running through the short hair on his head. “I’m very okay with this.” 

One of his hands moves between the two of you, fingers brushing along the seam of fabric running between your legs. Up and down, up, down. “What about this? You okay with this?” 

_Fuck yes_ you’re okay with it, it feels amazing. Your clit is swollen and throbbing, so big that the sensation of his fingers barely grazing drives you mad. 

You can’t answer, so you slide your hands down his back, under the band of those flannel pants, and grab his perfect ass. You grind your hips, crotch rubbing his hand, and he seems to know your answer. 

He’s an expert with his hands, you’ve got to give him that, and before you know it he’s got your pants and panties down, barely hanging on to one of your ankles. 

You think he’s going to fuck you right there on the kitchen counter, and God are you ready for it, but he doesn’t. 

No, instead he drops down, face lining up with your crotch, and he looks up at you smiling. 

“Breakfast of champions,” he says. 

It’s stupid, a goofy joke, and you’d laugh if you had the time, but you don’t. His tongue is too quick for that, licking over your outer folds before probing inside and immediately teasing your clit. 

Your head falls back, thumping the cabinet behind you. You spread your legs as wide as possible without falling off the counter, and your hands massage in the hair on Dean’s head. 

“Oh my God, Dean,” you whisper as his tongue swirls a perfect circle. 

He’s a watcher, that’s for sure. He watches, listens, remembering every little thing that makes your toes curl and your breath catch. He counts the times you pull his hair, knowing you must really like it when you give that low, throaty moan. 

You know he’s doing this too, cataloging what you like, what you want. He goes down on you and gets you close, so close, but he doesn’t get you there, doesn’t make you come, or maybe _let_ you come is a better word. 

He stands finally, hands running down your legs and wrapping them behind you again. 

“Legs,” he says, smiling that gorgeous smile at you. 

He’s referencing the nickname he had for you, but you can’t think about that right now. Instead, you cross your legs at the ankle behind his back, locking him to you. 

He can’t seem to help shoving his hips forward, and you wonder if the junction of your thighs will leave a wet spot on his pants. 

He doesn’t care about wet spots, you’re sure about that. 

“Not fucking you here,” he growls, and then picks you up like it’s nothing, “not the first time.” 

You wouldn’t care if he fucked you here. Hell, he could fuck you on the kitchen table, the couch, the floor, you don’t care where it happens, but it needs to happen. And soon. 

He kisses you the whole way to your room, while he kicks the door closed behind him, and as he lays you down on the bed. You don’t know how he does it, except that he must have memorized the layout of your furniture. 

Why you think about that is beyond you, because he’s pulling your shirt up over your head, and yanking the straps of your bra down to get at your breasts. 

You reach between his legs, not able to take it anymore, and grab his cock through the thick flannel. He groans into your neck, hips thrusting into your hand, and then he’s frantically pulling his pants down so that his cock springs free. 

It’s perfect, hot and hard in your hand. He’s leaking pre come, the tip slick with it as you pump him, and he hisses in pleasure. 

You’re not paying attention, too focused on the cock in your hand, until his thumb finds your clit. Your head pushes back, legs spreading wide, and you whine. “Please…” 

He knows what you want. _Him._

“Not yet,” he whispers, “you’re gonna come before I fuck you. I wanna watch you come.”

You can’t answer, not with his thumb working magic, making you practically scream. 

“That gonna get you there?” He asks, tongue flicking your nipple. When you don’t respond he moves up, rough jaw tickling your neck. He lowers his hips, taking his cock in his hand, and he uses the hot, slick tip to tease you with. 

_“Oh shit,”_ you don’t even realize you’re saying anything, but you hear yourself swearing. 

He rubs the head of his cock between your folds, a slow, torturous tease. “You’re so wet,” he says, teeth grazing along your collarbone. 

His hand works his cock around your clit, and you know it won’t take long. He’s kept you on the edge so long you’re going to come, sooner rather than later. 

He finds a rhythm, pressing kisses to your lips, neck, shoulders. He listens to your breathing, and this time, when you’re close, he doesn’t stop. 

“Good girl,” he praises you, “come on.” 

It builds like electricity in your belly, tingly and heavy, and when you finally come you practically scream with the intensity of it. You want him inside you, want to feel yourself come on his cock, but instead of fucking you he rolls to his back, pulling you on top of him in one smooth motion. 

You don’t miss a beat, lowering your still throbbing pussy onto his cock in one long stroke. Your muscles are still clenching, tightening around him. He grits his teeth, hands on your hips, holding onto you like you might go somewhere. 

“Fuck,” his face almost looks pained as he meets your eyes, “feels awesome.” 

And he’s right, it does. You ride him quickly at first, almost frantically. But soon you slow, taking long, slow strokes up and down his cock. He fills you perfectly, just the right amount of stretch to make you feel full. 

He watches as you sit back slightly on your heels. His hands caress your thighs, up your side, cupping your breasts. You close your eyes, head falling back, letting him watch you. 

His thumb moves to your clit again. You didn’t think you’d come again, not with how strong the last one was, but you feel it when it starts to build in your belly. 

You lean down, putting your hands on either side of his head. His one hand never moves from between your legs, the other grips the back of your neck, twisting in your hair. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says, “ride me.” 

God, he’s so hot. You can’t believe it when you stare down at him. And he’s letting you have complete control, letting you use his body to chase your own pleasure. 

You whimper as you get closer, forehead dropping down to rest on his. You want to come again, but your thighs are burning, and your arms are getting tired. 

“Dean,” you whisper, eyes fluttering open.

He knows. He knows what you need. He rolls the two of you again, and then he’s on top. He pulls one of your knees up by your side, and you raise the other to match it, letting him go deeper. 

His eyes close as he pumps into you, finally letting himself go. You reach down and find your clit, rubbing quickly in a way you know will get you off the fastest.

“You close?” He asks, tight lines showing at the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. He’s close, you can tell it in his expression. 

Normally you’d feel rushed here, but looking at him, knowing that being inside you is driving him crazy like that, it pushes you over the edge. 

You clench around him so tightly you see stars, and he groans, long and low at the feel of it. 

“Fuck yes,” he says through clenched teeth, and then his face is buried in your neck and he’s grunting through his own orgasm. 

When he’s done and has gone still, you notice that he’s got both arms wrapped around you tightly, and your legs have found their way around his back again, holding him there. You’re well and truly wrapped up in each other. 

His breathing slows to normal, but he doesn’t seem rushed to move. “Don’t mind me,” he finally says into your neck, “I’m just going to sleep here.” He fakes a snore and you laugh. 

He finally rolls away, looking over at you from the other side of the bed. He smiles, maybe a little questioning, and then stands. 

“Now I’m hungry.” 

You laugh at him. Yeah, now that you think about it, so are you. You share the bathroom to clean up, and follow the trail of your clothes to redress. 

Breakfast is good, eaten together at the table, small talk and comfortable silence mixed in between bites. There’s an unspoken understanding when you’re done eating. You do the dishes together and clean up, and then you make your way to the bedroom together and crawl under the blankets. 

He sighs contentedly as he presses up to your back, one arm wrapping over your waist. “Not sure how much sleepin’ we’ll get done this weekend.” 

You smile, eyes slowly drooping. “Just let me catch a quick nap and I’ll be up for round two.” 

“That a promise?” 

“Yeah,” you rub and hand up and down his forearm, “that’s a promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> HUUUGE shout out to my beta, Miss Moose, for her help on this one. She made some amazing suggestions that made this story so much better. Love you, girl! Thank you for all you do!


End file.
